Doctor, Heal Thyself
by ChibiJaime
Summary: When Ratchet contracts a mild virus after days of no rest and little energon, Wheeljack is forced to take care of him through the whole ordeal... Mild slash. WAFF. Fluff.


Pretend this makes sense. I love how this came out, though. Mild Ratch/Jack slash. XD

* * *

-/_"Am I sure. Of course I'm sure. I want to go to a latrine that has all night service, my liver is swimming every time I look at anything, now tell me, do I have the flu or am I just in love?" --Cpt. Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce_/-

**--Doctor, Heal Thyself--**

Ratchet was grumpy.

Grumpier than usual, anyway. Wheeljack watched as the sullen medic stalked about, examining the latest batch of casualties.

Actually, the wounded had been pouring in for almost three days straight, and from what Wheeljack had seen, Ratchet hadn't recharged or taken in more than five cans of energon in at least four. The medic was now looking more haggard than usual, his optics an unhealthy shade of pale blue, his steps shambling and weak.

"Ratchet," the engineer called, panels at the sides of his face flashing almost white in his concern, "y'look like slag warmed over. C'mon, you need t'lay down."

Ratchet's optics shot over towards him, and Wheeljack fought the urge to cower back. He'd seen enough of those glares, after all, that this one shouldn't really bother him.

But something about the unease with which the medic stood bothered him. However, in true Ratchet fashion, the boxy white mech snorted, heading over to glance at Sunstreaker's injuries. "Wheeljack, I've never felt better. So I missed some recharge. I'll be fine." Wheeljack raised a browridge, but blinked when the medic quite suddenly doubled over, a hand clasped over his mouth. "Nngh... Primus...!"

Faster than Wheeljack had ever seen him move, the mech bolted towards a waste recepticle, and what followed was the sound of the poor mech wretching, discharging in a few minutes what little was in his fuel tanks. Optics wide, and looking more than a little worried, Wheeljack quested a faint, "Ratchet...?"

"Ugh... wake me when the world stops spinning..." was the only reply he received before Ratchet's fuel tanks heaved again and he couldn't speak again for at least five minutes...

* * *

Wheeljack felt bad, watching the pathetic ball of medic Ratchet had curled himself into on his berth as First Aid slowly ran a scanner over him. "...you're not going to believe this."

"What?" Wheeljack urged, optics shooting to the younger medic. His panels were still flashing that concerned white. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"Oh, he'll be fine," First Aid replied, a smile barely visible behind his mask. "Actually, he's just sick. He's got himself a virus."

That about floored Wheeljack, and for a moment, he stood staring in relative shock at the Protectobot. "...you're joking."

First Aid shook his head, fighting the urge to snicker as he feared the wrath of Ratchet that would certainly follow later if he did. "No, no. I'm being very serious. It's a minor virus, nothing fatal, that's not allowing him to properly contain energon in his systems. It makes him, technically, feel ill... and he purges his tanks. Just like that."

"In short," Wheeljack mused, gazing down at his pathetically groaning mate, "he's got our version of the flu."

"You might call it that."

Ratchet groaned, waving one hand weakly as if to try to get someone's attention. Frowning, Wheeljack lowered himself, just enough to end up getting his panel grabbed, jerking him to face-level with his mate. "I... nngh... 'Jack... get me a waste bin. Now."

* * *

And so it was that Wheeljack was given the none-too-pleasant task of taking care of Ratchet, giving him very low doses of weak oil to keep his systems energized... as long as he could keep it down, anyway.

Ratchet, also, was _not _a very good patient. Always shifting about or shuffling, trying to get up or do things on his own, insisting he was well enough to work. Wheeljack was on the verge of tying him to his berth.

What they said about doctors being horrible patients was true, Wheeljack was coming to realize. Ratchet was impossible, insufferable, and downright intolerable when he was like this. If Wheeljack had thought him difficult to live with before... he was even more-so now.

Right now, the medic was resting on his side, one arm draped over the side of the berth while the other was hiding his face. Wheeljack frowned, gently rubbing Ratchet's side, which only brought a low, miserable groan from his companion. "Ratchet...?"

"Just kill me," whimpered Ratchet in reply. "At least then I won't be in agony."

Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle at his partner's tone. "Aw, I'm not gonna kill ya, Ratch. But y'gotta stop tryin' ta get up and do things. You're sick and you need rest."

Ratchet only growled. "Like hell. I'm fine, just let me up."

Well, that certainly wouldn't do. Of course... Wheeljack was ingenuitive, and he had plans. He had been thinking of this from early on, of course... and now he had a chance to actually do it.

Panels flickering in a brief smile, he chuckled when Ratchet tried to drag his feet off the berth, only to find them magnetized to the metal. "Havin' trouble there, Ratchet?"

"You magnetized my feet to the berth," Ratchet groaned weakly. "Bastard..."

Wheeljack laughed softly. "Only way you need to move is if you need to purge." His ear panels flashed, even as the medic lurched, leaning to the side of the berth to do just that. "You stand up, it'll just be much worse."

The medic whimpered, rolling back to his previous position. "I hate you."

"You won't when you're well." He sighed, gently running his fingers over Ratchet's chevron. "You'll be better soon, Ratch. You'll see."

* * *

The next couple of days carried a variety of visitors in to see the ailing medic. When he wasn't purging his poor overstrained systems, various mechs poked their heads in to see how he was doing. Even the twins dropped by for a brief spell.

No one ever stayed for long for fear of picking up the virus themselves. Wheeljack was left alone with the cranky, cantankerous, and very ill medic. "See, everyone's waitin' ta see you get better, Ratch," the engineer stated softly, lightly petting his mate's helm. "You've _got _to rest, though."

"Says you," Ratchet grumbled pathetically. "I can hardly rest without wanting to lose my oil again. Ugh. Wheeljack, please..."

Frowning slightly, the Lancia turned, helping Ratchet to lean over the side of the berth again before he glanced away, mostly out of politeness. There was an uncomfortable grinding sound that preluded each time Ratchet's tanks fought to purge themselves, and it was a sound Wheeljack was becoming more accustomed to than he wanted to be.

When he was done, the boxy white mech rolled back to rest his upper body in Wheeljack's lap, groaning. "I think I'm gonna die, 'Jack..."

"Oh, for Primus' sake, Ratch, you're not gonna die. You've got a bug in your systems." Wheeljack gave a gentle, dark blue glow. "Here... you're okay. It'll just be a couple more days... okay?"

Ratchet gave an incoherent mumble as Wheeljack scooted down a little, cradling Ratchet gently and rubbing a hand over his 'stomach' plating. The medic murmured quietly, resting his head against Wheeljack. "That feels good. Just keep doing that."

Chuckling, the engineer nodded, shifting Ratchet before lightly moving his hand again, bracing himself when the medic tensed and twisted, forcing him to lean him over the waste recepticle again. "Primus, Ratch... there's nothin' left t'discharge. I swear, you're gonna _under_charge yourself at this rate."

"Like I said," the medic moaned weakly, "I'm gonna die."

* * *

As the days passed, Ratchet slowly began to improve, and though he was still tired and weak, he started being able to keep down his oil more and more. Wheeljack was pleased to see, on the seventh day of his illness, Ratchet woke up smiling at him, his hand lifted, gently stroking Wheeljack's mask. "Hey," he croaked, vocalizer malfunctioning from days of ill use, "you're still here..."

"I haven't left since the first day you got sick, Ratch," came the soft reply. "Think you're up t'trying to keep a little energon down? Or are ya not up t'that yet?"

Slowly, Ratchet nodded, pushing himself up onto his elbows before Wheeljack's hand came around to hold him up. "I think I can give it a shot... my tanks are grinding a little... not in a bad way, either."

Wheeljack nodded, reaching for a canister he'd gotten earlier before gently pressing it to Ratchet's lips, letting the mech take short, careful sips. Close to an hour passed as they sat in comfortable silence, Ratchet occasionally sipping at the energon, and for once managing to fully keep it down.

"You've been really patient this whole week, Wheeljack, and I can't thank you enough," the medic murmured softly. "But I'm not sorry for being a jerk."

The engineer blinked, then let his panels glow in a brilliant grin. "Eh... you're the way you are, Ratch. Besides... I was pretty aware that doctors are lousy patients."

* * *

"Ratchet! Good to see you on your feet again!" Ratchet blinked, turning to glance over his shoulder from a datapad with a list of patients on it, just in time to see Jazz jogging into medical with a brilliant grin. "You look _tons _better."

Ratchet smiled slightly. "Well, I had seven days of rest, setting aside the purging my tanks every breem." He chuckled. "But... I'm not the only one suffering for that."

Jazz's browridge raised just slightly, wings flicking slightly as he gazed at the medic. "...wha?"

Without saying a word, Ratchet walked over to his private quarters, keying in the code to slide open the door. Motioning towards the interior, he stepped aside to let Jazz look in, revealing the form of Wheeljack laying with his back towards the door, moaning pathetically. "He didn't recharge the whole week or so he stayed with me... and no more than an hour after I was on my feet, he was purging _his _tanks."

Jazz burst out laughing, hand against his forehead. "So Wheeljack stayed up a whole week keeping _you _better off and wound up getting sick himself."

"Doctor, heal thyself," Ratchet chuckled. "But he just wouldn't listen to me. You reap what you sow, eh? Heheh... ah well. I just have to give him some TLC Ratchet style."

Shaking his head slightly, a grin still crossing his face, Jazz shook his head. "Ratch, m'man... I'd rather put up with two weeks of purgin' than two days of special TLC from you."

Ratchet smirked. "Eh... tough love. Either way... I'm _sure _he'll pull through this just fine..."

**--End--**


End file.
